Charles was driving me across town, because he didn’t want me on the bus. He did ask me if it was getting better or worse in Baltimore.
By Baltimore, we mean the state-created urban blight population replacement zone where unwanted working class murkans have been hunted since 1965 by gawdly folks of a lustrous hue, in a bid to clear out the saltines to make way for the Ritz. The government does not want their cities to remain violent hunt zones, but want the hunters to drive the enemy of the State, the terrible saltine, far away into the suburbs, then to be driven further into the hills, his victorious hunters occupying the suburbs as Ritz kind are placed in the inner city. What we and our ancestors have lived is not results, but process.
On paper the only law enforcement records that can be trusted is the homicide rate. The cops, the creep state and the crooks, only seem to be able to disappear about 5% to 10% of us who they kill.
The pile of bodies are lied about: who, what, why and when. But they remain. Murder rates do go up and down as a visible symptom of the main threads of aggression, the bankings, muggings, pack attacks, rapes, robberies, assaults, beat downs and home invasions. Rapes, robberies and home invasions are often, usually and always reclassified as assaults, thefts and destruction of property or burglary, respectively. The government always lies to us about the activities of its client mob imported to attack us. That human stain that we Baltimoreans refer to as Baltimore, encompasses the entire City, about 12 by 12 miles and square on two sides and half of the east side.
In addition are a wagon wheel spoke of Xvasion routs, from west to east: Frederick Road, Edmonson Avenue, US Route 40, Liberty Heights, Riesterstown Road, York Road, Loch Raven Boulevard, Harford Road, Belair Road [US 1], Philadelphia Road [US 7], Pulaski Highway [US 40 on the east side], Eastern Avenue, and out the ass east end of town, Hanover Street and Washington Boulevard. These crime fingers extrude as blight spears into suburbia, some even in to the rural highlands, where the invasion halts or stops for lack of affordably constructed mass transit.
When I lived in Baltimore, rather than visiting, my writing was dominated by ongoing research. I no longer do that and simply lead a personal life while visiting Baltimore, writing little more about it than to cite activities in my writing journal. So, the only metric I have is me. Unfortunately, I have changed a lot, ranging 44 years of residency and 100 pounds of weight. What has not changed is that I travel mostly by bus and foot. I will note to what extent the danger of a given year to me had to do with appearance or condition.
…
The Top 7 Shit Years of One Crumbled Cracker’s Life
The titles reflect articles or books or quotes from the same.
As I count the years in proofing this on 1/10/25, i come to the conclusion, that this half-baked potato negro cannot count.
-JL
#1 Thru 5
The Violence Project
1995-99:
Using a gun against 5 home invaders, running from the pigs after using a knife on two glorious kangs, this was life as a long haired, spry white trash grunt during the peake of the Drug War. Dealing with coked up joy stomping rednecks in pickups, predatory cops, sets of professional thugs, packs of teenage man-hunters, inspired the genre known as Harm City. That term derived from a Khaos Krew tag on the back of the wheel well seat of the #15 bus at Overlea station in 1999.
This is the world that was depicted in HBO’s The Wire. This life I hated gave rise to The Violence Project conducted from 1996 thru 2000. The events rise in my mind episodically now and are arranged chronologically as a violence memoir in the book 40,000 Years From Home. I was collateral damage in the War on Drugs, a pale pedestrian hated by dollar-chasing blacks and pension-chasing blues for my very existence outside the norm, as I simply tried to get back and fourth to low paying night stocking jobs at grocery stores.
#6
‘Psycho Santa Clause’
2017:
Attacked 20 times in one year, twice by pit bulls, partially because Baltimore had been hunted clear of pedestrians, and the final pedestrian was me, an old, fat gimp with a cane. Autumn in a Dying City [once banned by Amazon], Winter in a Dying City, White in the Savage Night, Harm City 2 Chicongo are books from that year, I think.
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#7
When You’re Food
2011
Stalked and harassed by cops, a pair of red necks threatening me at night, and hood rats hunting me in my neighborhood, compelled me to finally finish writing When You’re Food, which had been discarded in 2001.
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#8 & 9
‘Missah Jimmy’
2009 thru 2010
Being a grocery store manager saw me threatened and struck by employees, shop lifters and threatened with death and incarceration by police officers for not letting them come into the store after ours and loot. The occupational hazard of foiling mobs of flash looters and crackhead panhandlers on the parking lot came with a lot of occupational danger.
…
#10
‘Can You Dance for Me Brutha!’
2023
As an agonized cripple, a skinny old man hanging between two crutches, 6 young black men and one old negro tried to beat or mug me. But one, seeing me admiring the eye level breasts of his towering lady in a dollar tree in Pittsburgh, danced with me in the pork rind section. My redemption came when I chased a buck gro up the alley behind the Brickmouse House on crutches! Next to facing down Pave Man Jones and Company this is my proudest moment.
…
#11
2022
Pave Man Jones vs Cave Man Bones
My fitness and arrogance had me actually looking for trouble on a few occasions, to include my rain check duel with Pave Man Jones at 54th and Eastern, on August 4th, I think, in the wake of a tornado that gave the badge groes something to do other than prevent or punish me for the crime of saltine defense against sacred chocolate offense.
…
#12
‘What Up Wit Da Hat?!’
2020
As the myth that crackers breathed death made 2020 an easy time on the street for me with my traditional foes, cops began threatening me, a cracker crackhead hunted me in an alley by night, and the emptying of prisons had me dealing with prison thugs put on the street to drive me off of it. This was a very anxious year, with having to arm up for thugs at the same time that the cops were directed away from them and at us.
Since that time, I have felt more at ease as I walk armed between those who have been sent to drive me to extinction and those on station to punish any successful defense in the name of their great and evil god: USG.
The other 32 years had all of them threatening lows and highs, but do not stand out in my mind as any more miserable a pointless gutters of existence as the next year.
MURKHA!
